by Fox, Georgia
"Perhaps you might be of further assistance," said Brandon. "Could you come around here, please?"
"Yes, sir." The barber moved around the couch, out of her sight.
Brandon leaned over her again, one finger still playing with her labia, running up and down her cleft. Now that she'd come once already her hidden core was extra sensitive, her quim dripping with dew. "Would you like this good fellow to lend a hand?" he asked her.
She swallowed. Her breasts, now partially freed, swayed against the loosened corset as she writhed and pressed her mound on the tapestry fabric of the hotel couch. "I thought you were the jealous type," she ground out finally.
"Was that a yes, madam?"
"Hmmm." She took a breath. "Perhaps he could lend a tongue."
Brandon chuckled. Using his fingers to open her nether lips wide, he invited the lucky barber to dine.
"Sir, I...I...."
"Would you pass up such an opportunity? Dawson, is it not?"
"No, sir. I mean, yes sir, Mr. Wilder."
"Then enjoy what she's offering. Look how enticingly pink she is, nectar dripping out of her. We'll keep it between the three of us, eh? No one else need ever know what goes on here this afternoon. Here is your chance to earn a very large tip if you please the lady adequately."
There was only a further short pause before she heard a low, "Thank you, sir. Madam." And felt the other man's breath on her sex and then the slickness of his moustache on her incredibly roused flesh. He was quick to accept, quick to take advantage of the opportunity, as Brandon urged him on.
"Give her a good lathering, Dawson. Then you can tend to her pretty curls with your skillful razor after you do me."
What on earth did he mean by that? Drusilla tensed up, but the man kneeling behind her gave a muffled grunt of agreement, busy lapping up her moisture, his warm hands holding her thighs just above her garters. He was not so tentative now, fortunately. There was nothing worse than a hesitant tongue. Drusilla pushed back slightly into his face and felt his fingers tighten, pressing into her thighs as he licked faster, becoming quite greedy as his early shyness fell away.
"That's a good fellow," Brandon muttered, his voice deeper, huskier. "Isn't she sweet as honey? Do you know where to find her naughty button?" His hands were on her arse cheeks, stroking, squeezing while the other man's mouth suckled at her, lips tugging, tongue forced into her, wriggling against her pussy walls. "Shall I show you?"
Drusilla raised her head. "He knows," she gasped. "He knows where to ...find...it." She panted as another climax swept through her trembling body and Brandon chuckled, running a hand along her arched spine.
* * * *
He'd never been so aroused in his life, although he'd seen and done a great many things in his thirty nine years. The sight of this haughty, prim lady bent over his couch, half undressed, half unlaced, legs spread, pretty bottom raised high, made his cock hard enough to pound a nail into wood. He slowly stroked his staff, wrapping his long fingers around the bulging width. Still sticky from her cream he raised his fingertips to his lips. Quite delicious. No wonder Dawson was making such a meal of it. If he wasn't very much mistaken she'd just climaxed again under the barber's eager tending.
Despite an outward appearance of demure respectability, the lady was clearly not afraid of her sexuality. A refreshing change indeed. Lady and wanton all wrapped up in one stunning package.
He strode around the sofa and knelt on it, presenting his stiff ramrod for Mrs. Kent's mouth, which was already open, gasping and groaning in delight. Brandon held her chin and she opened her eyes. They were bright, shining. Eyeing his vermillion knob as he dangled it before her face, she licked her lips lasciviously. His balls tightened. He grunted, thrust forward. She took it in, her gaze growing misty, her lashes flickering with every powerful suck. Breathless, he gripped the back edge of the couch on either side of her hips and let her work his dick with a very talented mouth and tongue. Good God, he mused, she could suck an orange out of its peel. Mr. Kent had been a very lucky man indeed.
She reached around and grabbed his buttocks. Her long fingernails dug into his tense muscle and then she slapped him. Bloody hard. It was all it took to finish him off. Brandon shot his seed, jerking and shuddering, feeling like a grass green boy again, unable to hold back.
He emptied a bollock load into that woman's throat and she swallowed it all down, licking her lips when she was done, relishing every last drop.
Brandon still felt the flaming print of her spank on his arse cheek, and as if she knew she'd made her mark, she winked. He almost thought he saw a sparkle of silver dust. There was something dangerous about her. Magical. Witchy. He sensed it the moment they met.
But in his experience there was good and bad witchcraft. He had yet to decide which she possessed.
Six in the Afternoon
November 22nd
Stripped naked but for her stockings and garters, Drusilla lay back on the towel he'd placed over the couch and then spread her legs until her right knee was over the back, her left foot on the carpet.
Brandon propped her head up on a cushion so she could watch as the diligent barber applied shaving soap with a stunted brush.
"Are you sure about this?" she muttered as the brush tickled her nether regions and made it difficult not to squirm. Dawson seemed to be taking a great deal of time and care over the soaping.
"You'll like it," Brandon assured her. "Heightens the woman's arousal, so I've been told. I always wanted to see it done."
Heightened the arousal? Hmmm. She already found it exceedingly erotic to watch the somber-faced barber standing by the couch, preparing his razor. Her pussy ached from all the licking and caressing it had already received that afternoon and now it was about to be pampered further. She took a deep breath. After the hours they'd shared in his hotel suite, she wasn't likely to refuse Brandon Wilder too much, whether he held her little notebook for ransom or not. It was a disgraceful state of affairs, but she would remedy it the moment she left his hotel. She would never see him again after today. But she'd have a smooth mound to remind her. A souvenir, for a while, of this lust-filled afternoon in his company.
"Very well then. You may proceed."
She closed her eyes as the barber leaned over, but when she felt the first pass of his razor blade she opened them again. He was very skilled, as Brandon had promised. One of the best in the business, apparently. With his gloved fingers he lightly pinched her labia together, holding them out of harm's way. A pounding pulse rippled through her again. She was very pink down there, blushing from all the attention.
Brandon walked around to stand by the barber and watch his work.
The soap was soft, dripping down, some of it trickling into the crack of her bottom. She longed to close her thighs, but the barber took his time. He'd confessed to never shaving a woman before, yet he took to it with ease, an artiste at his profession. And very detailed.
"If madam would lift a little....?"
She obeyed, raising her hips so that he could make certain he got every patch of pubic hair.
Finally he was satisfied, wiping his razor and smiling proudly. "Does that suit, sir?"
"Very much," Brandon replied, staring down at her newly bald pussy. "Very much."
Together they wiped and patted her dry with towels.
"How smooth she is. Excellent job Dawson." Brandon ran his hand over her mound and between her legs, cupping and squeezing. "Feel how soft and satiny she is now." The barber removed his white glove and let his hand follow Brandon's, inspecting his handiwork. Fingers slipped up and down, exploring her bared folds, until she lifted her hips and exhaled a soft purr like a pampered cat.
The sensation of two pairs of hands fussing over her almost drove Drusilla mad with desire and every touch to her sex now was even more enhanced.
"Oops! I think I see a little soap left," Brandon muttered. He lifted her left leg high, sliding her ankle over his shoulder, and then he took a small flannel to dry be
tween her arse cheeks where the soap and water had dripped. The barber, meanwhile, patted her pussy lips with a thin cloth and Drusilla was close to losing herself over yet another peak. Her sex felt swollen and white hot.
"The lady seems restless, Mr. Wilder."
"I noticed, Dawson." Brandon's eyes regarded her warmly, intrigued and amused. "Look at her nipples—so proud and alert."
"Primed, one might say, sir."
"For a jolly hard sucking."
Drusilla took her cue and cupped both breasts in her hands, squeezing them together while the two men kept patting and stroking between her spread legs.
"The lady has very full breasts, does she not, Dawson?"
"Indeed, sir. Lush and tasty as sun-ripened peaches. But much larger."
"Perhaps she would like us to relieve her of the pressure that makes her fidget like this."
"I am happy to be of service, Mr. Wilder."
Thankfully, before she had to scream at them in an unladylike fashion, the two men sat her upright and each of them took a nipple in their hands, then their mouths. A low moan escaped her lips and she leaned her head back, the glorious tugging and sucking driving her arousal from canter to gallop. Both men slid hands between her legs to stroke her smooth pussy. Both men slid fingers into her at the same time. Drusilla cried out, moving her hips, arching her spine, thrusting her breasts out so they took more into their mouths and feasted greedily. As she widened her thighs, hooking her legs over the laps of both men, Brandon's hand slid further under, until he was fingering her anus again. She felt his erection pushing against her thigh and the barber, his fingers moving in and out of her cunt, was in much the same condition.
Brandon, however, seemed to have reached the end of his generosity.
"That will be all, Dawson."
The barber hesitated and then reluctantly withdrew. "Very good, sir."
After he'd gone, pushing his trolley out, Brandon finally carried her off the couch and into his bed.
"He wasn't very happy to be sent off," she murmured.
"Don't worry. I gave him an extremely large tip."
"I hope so."
He paused over her as she lay on her back upon his bed. "Do you want him back again?" he demanded, his eyes suddenly darker.
She thought about teasing him, but decided against wasting time. "No."
"Good."
His mouth lowered to hers.
"I'm not prepared to share all of you," he muttered. "Only a nibble."
Slowly he kissed her. Drusilla tasted herself on his tongue and knew he would taste himself likewise. How many hours had she been there with him? Too many.
"How did I get so damned lucky, Mrs. Kent?"
"Lucky?"
"To have you sit down at my table."
Yes he was a charmer. Knew all the right things to say. But it was still very pleasant in his arms. Sooner or later she'd come down to earth, but for this moment she lived the fairytale. This was once upon a time. Once.
"And now you promised to leave my son alone," he whispered into the side of her neck.
Funny. She frowned. Didn't remember promising that.
But Brandon moved his kisses down her naked body and it didn't seem the right time to correct him. She was laid out on a lovely soft bed of fine linens and in the company of an incredibly handsome, imaginative and tireless man. Why spoil it by making him know he wasn't about to get everything his way?
When there was another knock at the door, she whispered, "Dawson's back. Perhaps he left something behind."
Another knock. This one more urgent, rather cross. A voice shouted through the door. "Father! I know you're in there."
Nicholas.
Brandon groaned softly. "Oops. Bugger!"
* * * *
He swung open the door and there stood the boy, red-faced with annoyance. "She wasn't at Claridges. I went to her house and the maid told me her mistress was coming here, to the Dalton." Nicky pushed his way in, hat in hand, bringing the chill of outside with him.
"Ah." Brandon closed the door and scratched his head. "I must have got the message wrong. Sorry."
"Are you sure you didn't see her here?" The boy eyed his flannel bathrobe and bare feet.
"Of course not," he replied with as much innocence as he could muster. "I've been in my room getting a shave."
Clearly Nick had a suspicious nature. Brandon was glad she'd had the foresight to gather up all her things before disappearing behind the dressing screen in his bedroom.
The boy glanced over at the open door to the room beyond. The bed was rumpled, but no more than it would be if Brandon rose from it only a short time ago. "The dining room is closed until dinner so there was no one to ask if she came here at three."
Brandon strode to the sideboard and poured two brandies. "I thought you didn't want the services of this... matchmaker anyway."
No reply. Nick walked to the couch and dropped there, propping one foot up on the low table nearby. Hopefully, thought Brandon, the boy wouldn't smell the fragrance of sex and woman, although both were prevalent at that moment in his own nostrils. To him it felt heavy in the air of the suite. He passed a glass to his son.
"Elinor wants to see me tomorrow."
Nick grabbed the offered glass and swallowed a mouthful of brandy before he spoke again. "Great-grandmama Charming? What does she want to see you for?"
The boy, he realized sadly, lacked basic good manners. It had quickly become evident, over the space of the previous one and a half days, that Nick slouched about with a large sense of entitlement, as if everyone owed him something. Now he pushed his way into his father's opulent suite, strode clumsily across the carpet in dirty boots, made himself at home and gulped down Napoleon brandy without a pause to appreciate the colors in his glass or the exquisite bouquet. Even please and thank you seemed beyond him. However, acutely aware that his own example had left much to be desired, Brandon decided it would be hypocritical to point it out.
Besides, it was a little late to start agreeing with his own father now. Good god, he mused running splayed fingers back through his hair. Was he getting old, worrying about the behavior of the younger generation? No, no, no. Wasn't going to happen. He took a swig of brandy and felt the flame scorch his throat.
"I daresay Elinor wants to talk about you," he said to Nick. "What have you done to her lately? I may as well know what I'm in for."
"She says I insulted some woman at one of her drawing room recitals."
"Did you?"
"No idea." Nick shrugged, finished the contents of his glass and held it out for another. "I'd had a jot too much to drink. Can't remember much about the evening in question."
Sounded just like him, twenty years ago, he mused somberly. He still couldn't understand why Elinor Charming bothered warning him about his father's schemes to marry Nick off. The old bat was more than capable of handling the situation herself. All she need do, to stop anything with which she disagreed, was threaten to leave her fortune and the business to someone else. To keep on her good side, Captain Wilder would do whatever she wanted and she must know that. Yet rather than intervene, she wrote to the grandson with whom she'd had no contact for two decades. Perhaps it was her way of making him face his responsibilities. She was always a great one for duty and honor. The hardest thing, in fact, about taking the blame for Lady Charlotte Parker's pregnancy all those years ago, was knowing it would disappoint his grandmother. There were many things Elinor Charming was willing to overlook and Brandon had always managed to cajole her out of bad moods, but getting another man's wife pregnant was beyond the pale.
Now he was older—a great deal older—Brandon wished he'd done things differently. He'd been too rash. Unfortunately, he always had a tendency to want to help people and frequently at his own cost. When Charlotte came to him, desperate and in floods of tears, what else could he do but try to stand by her. He gave her money, her husband found out, and thus suspicions quickly mounted against him. He'd known Charlotte sinc
e they were children. It felt like the right thing to do back then, to save the woman by taking responsibility for her child. Of course, he'd thought only of the backlash against himself and was nobly prepared to bear it.
For the trouble and grief he'd caused his family he was now deeply sorry. At eighteen he'd never stopped to consider the effect upon them. But at eighteen, it must be said, he seldom had thoughts that reached beyond the end of a night. He had nothing to worry about, nothing to exercise his mind. Back then, Brandon's life was already sketched out for him like an architect's blueprint. It was expected that he would run the Charming Chocolate empire, so he didn't even have to think about a profession. He already had a fortune, amassed by previous generations of Charmings. What was there for him to think about beyond his immediate pleasures and finding ways to spend coin?
After the scandal, he thought going into exile would be the best thing to do. For everyone. Charlotte didn't want him around once he'd paid for her divorce, his father wasn't speaking to him, his grandmother pretended to take to her bed in suitably dramatic fashion, and he'd been thrown out of every club in London thanks to Lord Parker's influence. So getting as far away as possible seemed like a very good idea.
Today he was back again, facing old demons. His family and other beasts.
"Do you ever hear from your mama?" he asked suddenly.
"On my birthday, if she remembers, she sends me a letter and a gift." Nick laughed. "What do I care? She's a stranger to me."
Brandon knew what it meant to grow up without a mother. It rather spoiled the equilibrium of life, to not have that close bond and feminine influence at an early age. Of course, Brandon had a step-mother for a few years before he left England, but she had no interest in him and made that plain. Theirs had been a relationship of mutual dislike and distrust. As for his grandmother Elinor, he always thought of her as more Sergeant Major than woman. Tenderness, in her oft stated opinion, was only good in a steak.
